When the Kitten's Away, the Cat will Play

School's out. Summer's on (ok, who am I kidding? It feels like April here in Maine, but the calendar says summer, damn it, and that's where I'm trying to keep my head).

And here's the kicker--I'm on day 4 of Abby's visit with Nana and Grandpa in Indiana while I'm home in Maine. She comes home (with Nana) on Tuesday.

I miss the little sucker--who wouldn't? See how cute she is? Grandpa sent me this a couple days ago.


But I will also admit, here in the private pages of my blog, that I am having a fabulous time. The weight of arranging babysitters, choosing one opportunity over another, getting up in the middle of the night to offer drinks of water and hugs, and working around naps (not mine!) has been temporarily lifted. I'm not doing anything crazy, crazy. No, I'm spending my days sitting at my local coffee shop, having dinner with friends, catching Okbari and my fellow dancers at Blue, reading, sleeping in late (after going to bed late), going to a concert, and other equally pleasant pursuits.

And I'm gearing up for this summer's stint at the Southern Maine Writing Project. After this lovely week, and the one before at my parents' home in Indiana, I really do feel as though I've had a vacation. I'm rested. I'm ready! I'm excited to work with a great group of teachers for the next four weeks.

Yup. Life is good. But you can also bet I'll be ready to squeeze my little sweetie till she pops when she comes home on Tuesday!

What a funny little moment

I'm sitting on my deck eating fried green beans. Abby is running around, 'painting the deck' with a stick she found. The dogs are in the yard, or up by Abby, or trying to steal my green beans. The sky is cloudy, but the temperature is near 70.

Despite all these pleasantries, I'm tired. Abby is tired. We're both a little grouchy. My allergies are acting up, so my throat is itchy and my nose is runny.

And yet...in just over three hours, I'll be belly dancing at a local spot in Portland.

Tired and grouchy as I am, I am pumped about later tonight. The venue is small, the music will be live, the crowd, friendly. And I'll be dancing with one of my belly dance friends, Josephina. I adore her. She's fun and fabulous.

I love all things about belly dancing. Even asking me to perform at 10 PM on a Friday, when normally I'm in bed by 9:45, can't deter my excitement.

My costume makes me happy, and the music will be transcendent. From 10 to midnight, I will not feel tired. I will feel exhilarated. My hip scarf will shimmer, my hips will shimmy. My skirt will swish, my snaky arms will slither. The rhythms and tempos will rise and fall, and I will follow where they lead.

I can't wait.


But I could still use a nap.

Civility

As you may know, I look up to my brother. He has taught me many useful things--like how to knit, how to blog, how to behave in an art museum, and even how to make a kick-ass gravy. I strive to be like him in many ways, including in the way I blog. In his blog, he never rants. He has made a very careful point to avoid doing so. And I wish to once again follow in his footsteps.

(Mind you--lots of people rant in their blogs, and I by no means wish to judge them. I realize that I don't have to read anyone's blog if I don't like the content, and no one has to read mine, whether I rant or not. But I have other venues for spouting off, maligning my fellow human beings, and cursing excessively. I don't need to do it here for all to see. In the bright light of the next day, my rants often seem silly, petty, and down-right embarrassing, anyway.)

So this is not a rant.

It's a post about civility.

There are lots things one could say about civility. One could discuss table manners, the rearing of children, the appropriate way to tell someone her skirt is tucked into her pantyhose, or even the best way to deal with an obnoxious guy who sits next to you on your five-hour flight from Boston to San Francisco. There are civil ways to handle any and all of these situations, and zillions of others.

My focus is on civility between friends who make plans to get together.

Civility between friends? Surely one can afford to be a little more lax when it comes to friends. One can let one's guard down a bit. A friend will, of course, understand. Between friends it is certainly ok to make plans on a Tuesday for a lunch date on Thursday, then cancel said plans with a phone message Thursday morning. A friend will understand.

(I hear you. I know what you're asking: "Where is the lack of civility in this example?" And you are right. It is, in fact, very civil to call and cancel--as opposed to just not showing up--especially if you say you are sorry and that you forgot you had plans to go to, say, New Hampshire or Massachusetts or New York or California, that day. Oops! And you also say, Hey, we can get together Friday or even Saturday if you want.)

So the first friend (who tries very hard to be civil to all people, friends and strangers alike), the one who got a babysitter for the lunch date, calls back and leaves a message saying, "Hey, no problem. I hope you had a great trip. I'm booked for Saturday, but I could meet Friday afternoon for drinks. Let me know."

And here is where the lack of civility comes into play. The friend who canceled does not call back. Friday afternoon comes and goes, and it becomes clear that he does not really want to meet because if he did, he would have called again when he got back from his trip (which he did indeed do. He lives down the street. The stood-up friend saw him on her way to the grocery store). Certainly he would wish to reschedule, right? To follow up? To check in? To say, shucks, I can't do Friday. Too bad!

No. He would not. Because he lacks civility.

See?

Shoot.

This looks a lot like a rant.

And damn if I don't feel better for having written it.

Love Poems

My students are writing poetry.

I ask them to do this for me every semester. I show them different types of poems--we look at tricky forms like the sestina, and we look at fairly easy-to-imitate models like Mary Pipher's "I am from" (still glorious--simple form doesn't mean lack of brilliance--my point to the kids exactly). I present a range of possibilities, and I ask my students to give them a whirl--or not. I don't require any type of poem. As a result, I get all kinds. Some students willingly take up the challenge of writing a sestina, and several have produced really incredible specimens. Some students, who declare in loud tones that they are not poets, they don't like poetry, and they can't write it, end up producing such tremendous free verse that we are both shocked at (and thrilled by) their hidden talents. Even when I stop requiring it, they continue their poetical efforts. Good stuff.

Inevitably, a few kids decide to write love poems. This shouldn't be shocking. High School is all about LOVE, right? I put the following poem by Stephen Crane on the board for our class discussion:

Ah, God, the way your little finger moved,
As you thrust a bare arm backward
And made play with your hair
And a comb, a silly gilt comb
—Ah, God—that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.


I use this poem for two reasons:

1) we talk about word choice and tone ("Ah, God" x2, "thrust," "bare," "gilt comb," etc. etc.)
2) we talk about how it focuses in on a teeny, tiny moment. Just a moment. A few seconds. A vivid image.

#2 actually gets a lot more attention than #1.

And still I get poems like the following (note--this is not actual student work. I would not put student work up here w/out permission. This is my imitation of some student work):

Why aren't we together?
We were meant to be.
It was in the stars.
The universe said so.
I love him,
but now I'm so alone.
And sad.
I cry every night.
Why did he go for that other girl?


But it's ok that I get poems like this. It gives me something to do, makes sure I still have a job in the morning.

I could have worse work than talking about words and emotion and poetry and images. In truth, I love this part of my job.

Happy Valentine's Day to the love poets. There's one in each of us, I'm certain.

A poem for you on a day for poems

I am thrilled that I remembered, all on my own and without seeing it three days late in someone else's blog, that today is a day for celebrating Brigid, Goddess of Poetry and Healing, by participating in a silent poetry reading (done by posting a poem to one's blog). (See this link for details.)

Anyhow, I've had poetry on the brain a lot lately, maybe because for New Year's my dear friend Julie gave me a wonderful book: A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings, and I haven't missed a day of dipping into this glorious collection. Rumi, a 13th century mystic/poet from the Middle East, writes with simplicity and wisdom, or at least it seems so in the translations of Coleman Barks. So here is a favorite of mine, though it is not the selection from today. In fact, it's the selection from January 16.


Let the Beauty We Love

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Holiday Hangover

I've been back to work for a week now since our family holiday came to a close, and you know what? I'M TIRED.

I'm thinking we need a vacation to recover from our vacations.

Mind you, my vacation was anything but trying. My parents came for a visit which meant we had scenes like this:

BABY MONITOR: Hello? Mommy? ABC. Spider! Spout!
ME: Abby's up from her nap.
GRANDPA: Can I go get her?
NANA: No! I'm going!
GRANDPA: It's MY turn!
NANA: You can't catch me...

And I would just continue reading or writing or playing Pathwords on Facebook.

When Phil's parents came over, we even had scenes like this:

ABBY: Uh oh. Abby pooped!
ME: Abby needs clean pants!
GRANDMA: You want me to change your pants, Abby?
NANA: I can do it.
GRANDMA: I don't mind.
NANA: I'll just come along, too.
GRANDMA: Ok! We'll all go.

And I would just continue reading or writing or playing Pathwords on Facebook.

Clearly, I'm suffering from grandparent withdrawl symptoms. I might need to go to rehab.

Christmas Card Conundrum

I first sent Christmas cards in college. I'd carefully choose a card that I felt represented my spirit, my style, my sensibilities. In each, I'd pen a note, simple maybe, but personal to each person on the list. I'd hand address each envelope, too.

Time passes. The list grows. I receive more cards from more people, and I add those people to my list.

The personal note has not lasted. I still write, "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy Holidays" or something at least a little different (hardly) from the pre-printed message, but I feel a pang of guilt with each scribble. Why did the note go by the wayside? Because of the length of the list? Maybe, but I'm inclined to think it's because most of the cards I get have no note. They have the family's names (written by the same hand) below the preprinted bit. The whole Christmas card thing is starting to feel...more like business and less like the meaningful communications I started with years ago.

All right. For the sake of argument (with myself) I'm going to alter my perspective from that of pained Christmas card writer to Christmas card receiver. We get cards from all sorts of folks--family, close friends, acquaintances, lobbyists, the electric company. How do I feel when I receive these cards? Let's see. I enjoy the images. I do. I take a moment to look at each one (even from the utilities people). Maybe that's because I've always put thought into the cards I choose to send. If there's a note, I'm thrilled. If the card is just signed, that's ok, I still feel happy to see it. If there is a typed up "Christmas Letter" and I am fond of/close to the sender, I read the note happily. If I am not close to the sender (note lobbyists in list above) I don't give the letter much time. It goes right into the recycle bin. What else? I love getting pictures of family/friends/their kids. I may not save them forever, but I'm happy to see them.

Ok then. So considering all of the above, it seems I should keep sending my cards, weak scribble and all, and I'm maybe on to something by sticking Abby's photo in.

So what was the point of this post? No point. Thinking through writing. To an audience (Hi, Mom!) Actually, I guess it made me feel better about the cards I'm sending. It was a good reminder to myself to look at things from different perspectives. And now I'd better finish the cards!